Whose Life Is It Anyway, Pappy?
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: A somewhat sideways ending for Season 1, Episode 12: Night of the Wolf. Well, what do you expect from a Heathen writing a story based on a Nick-centered episode?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: ** _Living is like licking honey off a thorn. _

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

_Smell that honeysuckle… _

Heath felt uneasy. The spicy, sweet scent of honeysuckle had been heavy in the air when the rabid wolf had attacked Nick.

Heath did not believe Nick was dead.

He could be. He probably was.

_Rabies kills. Almost always. Rabies kills. _

Heath shivered. _Please God, don't let him be dead. _

_Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid…. Ye have heard how I said unto you, I go away, and come again unto you. _

_So does anthrax always kill, yet Prince Oxford still lived. _

Heath did not believe Nick was dead either.

He smelled the honeysuckle, and saw the yellow woodbine near the corner of the house, even before he saw the huge tree Nick had described with the ancient dilapidated swing still hanging from it. He turned into the yard, dismounted, and tied his mare to the porch railing.

Then the door of the house opened, and his brother was in his arms.

* * *

Heath had not truly been afraid before. But now that it was over, and the sixty day incubation period was up, as he watched Nick and the boy Tommy mock-wrestling on the ground, fear gripped him. _What if Nick had died? What would I have told the family? How would I have faced them? _He went white at the mere thought, but the laughter of the two on the ground in front of him helped to calm him.

Nick was alive. That was the main thing. That was the _only _thing.

Nick was alright, so everything would be alright.

"Hey," Tommy said, sitting up. "If we're going to Massachusetts on the train, when are you gonna teach me to ride a cuttin' horse?"

"What's wrong with now?" Heath asked. "Where's Coco?" Heath had an idea that Nick's venerable silver dapple gelding would be more forgiving of a beginner than his mare. And anyway, Dot was not a 'cuttin' horse.'

Nick, seated on the ground, was laughing. "We don't have any cattle to 'cut,'" he objected.

Heath looked around. "The swing can be a steer, and the woodbine bush there. Dot can be a cow, and I'll be a maverick calf for you." He winked at Tommy. "How'd that be?"

Tommy looked at his hero. "Can we, Nick?"

"Sure."

* * *

"Okay, Tommy," Nick instructed, when the boy had mounted the gelding, "you wanna stay in the middle of the saddle."

The red head nodded vigorously, to indicate understanding.

"Sit up straight," Nick told him, as man and boy and horse approached the makeshift 'herd.' "Shoulders over your hips, hips straight over your ankles…. You're doin' real fine, Tommy."

Heath, sitting on his haunches near Dot, mooed suggestively. The mare's head dipped towards her master, perhaps wondering if he'd lost his mind.

"Okay," Nick continued, "as long as we're moving forward, you wanna keep that position, stay balanced."

They were almost to the 'calf.' "Now," Nick said, "slouch down like you're sinking into the saddle. Pretend you're melting. Sit back on your bottom." He put a black gloved hand up to Tommy's shoulder, and shook it, then moved down to the boy's elbow and did the same. "Neck, arms, and shoulders soft. Everything soft and melty."

Heath was impressed with the gelding's ability and willingness to put up with this. Next to him, Dot whuffled confusedly. He mooed at her plaintively, but she had no interest in feeding him.

"Now, Coco's gonna turn, so you wanna keep your back collapsed, but just shift a little weight toward the herd here. Think of your tailbone connecting to Coco's herd-side back leg. That's what's gonna keep you balanced. No, you don't need to be way over to the side. Just a little bit—good, like that." Coco pivoted neatly through the turn. "Now just let your body come back into alignment. Good!"

They continued working on it a little longer, until Nick and Tommy were satisfied with the boy's ability to separate Heath from the swing, the bush, and the mare. The heady fragrance of the yellow flowers had strengthened as honeysuckle always did at twilight.

"All this work has made me thirsty," Heath said. "How's about a sip of honeysuckle?"

"What?!" came from Nick and Tommy in unison.

Heath approached the bush. "Just a taste for my friends to wet their beaks," he ordered the plant as if it were a barkeep.

A tiny bird burst from the plant, making scratchy noises, and emitting a sharp "chee-chee-chee!"

To Nick and Tommy's surprise, the blond man made a popping noise, then "chee-chee-chee"d right back at the bird. It dove toward him as he deftly plucked a double handful of the long yellow blossoms.

"Chee-Chee-Chee!" Heath was faced away from them, so they couldn't tell if the last word (or chee) was had by the bird or the man.

Perhaps the man, for the bird flew off, its head a brilliant purple in the red rays of the setting sun.

"What did he say to you, Heath?" Tommy asked, excitedly. "And what did you say back?"

The blond laughed. "He said, 'This is my bush, keep away!' and I said, 'This is Tommy's bush, and there's enough here for us all.'"

Tommy's eyes rounded in amazement.

Heath pulled the bottom off one of the flowers. "You see this string?" The little red head nodded. "Okay, you wanna start pulling that out, then went you see a drop, that's it." He held the bottom of the blossom to his lips and sucked. "Pure nectar," he confirmed. "You wanna try?"

Tommy nodded and took one of the flowers. When he'd sucked out the bit of nectar, he smiled at Heath. "Now Nick."

Heath held out one of the flowers to his big brother.

"Oh, no." The black glove waved the blossom away.

"It's sweet, Nick," Tommy urged him. "Don't be afraid! I'm sure you'll like it."

Heath grinned.

"All right, give it here." He took the flower, but pulled too roughly, and the little string broke. "Oh, I got a dud!" he exclaimed, much to his auditors' amusement. Heath broke another piece off the bottom and helped him draw out the 'thread'. "There's the drop!" Nick yelled in excitement, then sipped the sweet nectar, and laughed at the pleasant taste. "It's a lot better than Bullfrog Stew," he admitted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_If thy brother wrongs thee, remember not so much his wrong-doing, but… that he is thy brother._ –Epictetus

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

Heath had no sooner opened the door and set a weary boot over the threshold than a loud voice boomed, **"Heath! Get in here!" **

_Had Nick somehow beaten him home? _Heath shuddered involuntarily, as though a goose had walked over his grave.

The angry voice didn't belong to Nick.

It belonged to Jarrod.

Or 'Pappy' as Nick called him, and as he had called himself.

* * *

"I **told **you to bring him home," Jarrod's vivid blue eyes snapped as much as his voice.

Heath blinked and took in the lay of the land. They were all there waiting for him in the parlor, Jarrod, Mother, Audra, and the two telegrams, both lying open on the coffee table.

"I hope you don't mind that we opened the wire addressed to you," Jarrod sneered sarcastically, "but you'll appreciate that we were eager to see the first communication from Nick in over two months!"

"Of course I don't mind," Heath assured him. He had known a confrontation was coming, but this was sooner, and angrier, than he'd expected. It was beginning to dawn on him just how much Jarrod had been holding himself back when he'd asked about Nick before. Heath wasn't ready for this. He looked at Audra, but his usual ally was staring down at her lap. His gaze sought Mother's, and he asked quietly, "May I go get cleaned up first?"

"No!" Jarrod yelled. "You've delayed quite long enough already." He picked up one of the telegrams and waved it at his half-brother. "Nick says here you're going to explain. Now talk!"

So Heath told them. Still covered in the dust of the trail; standing, since no one had asked him to sit; throat dry, since no one offered him a drink, he told them everything: about buying the mares and the stallion, about the scent of honeysuckle on the night air, about the rabid wolf, about cauterizing the wound with gunpowder, about the doctor, and the incubation period, and Nick's decision to search for some kind of meaning in what remained of his life.

"Is Nick all right?" Mother asked. _Rabies? Dear God!_

"Yes, Mother, he's fine. He'd have come home with me, but a woman at the place where he was staying passed away, and he had to take her son back east to his grandparents. Wasn't no one else could do it."

Jarrod leaned back against the drinks table, his hands gripping its marble top convulsively. _Only Nick could get rabies and not be dead. _His next question came out as a hoarse whisper of disbelief. "My brother was bit by a rabid wolf, and you let him leave here without telling us? How dare you?"

Heath licked dry lips. "Jarrod, I wa—"

**"HOW DARE YOU!"** Jarrod yelled, suddenly. "What if he had died, Heath? What then?!"

_Oh, God._ Heath had enjoyed the comfort of Nick's physical presence and obvious health in Willow Springs; the rest of the family hadn't been so fortunate. "Jarrod, he's fine, I swear—"

"How do I know that? For all I know he's lying dead in a ditch! _You _could have sent these wires yourself!"

"I wouldn't lie to you, Jarrod."

"You lied to us EVERY DAY! Every day since you and Nick came back from buying that stallion, all lies!"

"No—"

"I say **_YES!_** You claim Nick was bitten by a wolf, correct?"

"Yes—"

"And a doctor told the two of you Nick would probably die within sixty days?"

"Yes, I told yo—"

"Why didn't you tell us this story before? When Nick was here to say yea or nay to it?!" Jarrod demanded.

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I gave Nick my word."

"We're his family. Don't you think we had a right to know?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"Nick said he'd be dying for sixty days, and he didn't want the whole family dying with him."

"Only you," Jarrod retorted coldly.

Heath was confused. "What?"

"He only wanted you to die with him?"

"No, he—" _What did Jarrod mean? _"I was there when the wolf bit him, but he wouldn't let me go with him when he left."

"When he left to die."

"Yes."

"Alone."

"That's how he wanted it."

"I told you before, Heath, Nick doesn't get to choose whether we'll be in his life."

"You should have told him," Heath said, then cursed himself for answering back. Audra was looking at him now, and frowning.

"_You _could have told us, Heath. But you chose not to. Why? Did you think you were sparing us pain?"

"No," Heath repeated. "I didn't tell you because Nick asked me not to."

"Didn't you know how much your silence was hurting us? Maybe we could have helped Nick, but your silence prevented it. _You_ hurt us, Heath: Nick, and Audra, and Mother and me. Don't blame Nick. _You _made that choice." The blazing blue eyes were almost hypnotic. "How could you hurt Mother like that, after all she's done for you?"

The question hung in the air. Heath felt battered, though Jarrod hadn't raised a hand to him. His heart ached with regret. He agreed with Jarrod. They _should_ have told the family. He hadn't wanted to promise, but Nick had insisted. He looked at Mother, and at Audra, and could see that Jarrod was right. He had hurt them by keeping his word to Nick.

He was so tired. Pain shot through his head like an arrow. He was so thirsty. He licked his lips again, and felt how dry they were. "I'm sorry." His soft voice carried clearly in the still room.

Jarrod slapped him.

Heath rocked from the force of it.

Mother rose and got between them. "All right, Jarrod, that's enough." She caught Heath's arm in her two hands as if to restrain him, though he'd made no move to strike back.

Heath looked down into her face, only inches away, and blinked. "I'm sorry," he said again. His voice was calm, but she could feel his arm trembling under her hands, could see what looked like tears in his eyes.

"Go and get cleaned up now," Mother ordered. "There's time for you to have a bath before supper. I don't want you sitting at table in your dirt."

"Yes, mother," he replied. She let go of his arm, and he disappeared upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: ** _Real men cry. The pressure of life becomes so much at times that you need to relieve it._

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

The bath salts smelled of honeysuckle and had turned the bath water an opaque pale pink, like the milk left in the dish after you've eaten all the strawberries. His body, under the water, was invisible. He leaned his aching head back against the porcelain lip of the tub and sighed. He had given up thinking, and just lay, letting the warm, sweet-scented water soak all his cares away. He had never known such luxury until he'd come to live with the Barkleys.

And if tears streamed from the closed eyes, down the flushed cheeks (one of which still stung), and surged over the slightly elevated chin before dripping down onto the taut and exposed neck, there was no one to see, or care, or judge. It was just more salt added to the soothing bath.

He sank down slowly, until he was completely submerged, entirely hidden under the pink water. He was safe there, at the peaceful bottom of his own private porcelain sea. No sights, no sounds, no troubles. No angry brothers, no mothers or sisters he'd hurt. He hung suspended, floating, the smooth walls and floor and the silky water the only things in his world, until the need for air forced him to the surface.

He broke the air gasping, and blinking from the salty water in his eyes.

"I almost thought you'd gotten out," Audra said. "Here." She handed him a washcloth, and while he dried his eyes, she set the towels she brought down on the dressing table, and seated herself in the vanity chair.

"Audra, I've told you before, it ain't fittin' for you to come in here when I'm takin' a bath."

"Pshaw!" She dismissed his objection with an airy wave. "We're brother and sister, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are, but—"

"I _had _three brothers already before you came here, it's not like you've got anything I haven't seen—"

"For pity's sake, Audra—" She might be shameless, but _he _wasn't. He could feel himself blush.

"Look, Heath, I need to talk to you, and this is the only place I can be sure will be private."

Well, at least she was talking to him. And Gene _had _warned him. Heath said gently, "What is it, sis?"

She frowned. "I wish I had known… what happened—what _was _happening… to Nick."

Her brother sighed. "I wish I could have told you."

"That's it," she agreed, seemingly relieved.

He was confused. "What's it?"

"If you thought Nick was going to die, and you made him a promise; well, that's a promise you have to keep, isn't it?"

Heath's brow creased. "I thought so… I guess I still think so. I try to keep my promises, even to people who aren't dying."

"Will you promise me something then?"

"All right."

"Don't be angry at Jarrod."

A wave of weariness seemed to crash over him, there in the tub. "I'm not angry at Jarrod, sis. He's angry at me."

Heath watched as Audra rose from the little chair and came over to kneel next to the tub. Her right hand rose, and while her other fingers curled under, her index finger made an arc in the air that landed lightly on the very tip of her half-brother's nose.

"He won't be angry forever," she promised.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: ** _"For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind."_ – Ralph Waldo Emerson

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

The term 'supper' at the Barkley Ranch denoted a light evening meal: often as little as soup, a green salad, and a garnish of meat or fruit. Simple foods.

Emotional upset often robbed Heath of hunger. He wondered if he'd be able to eat at all, but he'd been commanded to appear, and anyway staying in his room would not make things better.

He was late coming down. The family had left the parlor. He hurried into the dining room. "Sorry I'm late," he apologized, sliding into his chair.

Mother nodded forgiveness, and Audra smiled at him across the table. His eyes darted to Jarrod.

"You can say grace, now you're here," his big brother ordered.

Obediently, Heath bowed his head, and the others followed suit. "Come, Lord Jesus, be our Guest, our morning Joy, our evening Rest, and let Thy gifts to us be blest, and us to Thy loving service. Amen."

Silas entered. Often, for a light supper, he brought the food to the table already on the family's plates, and he had done so tonight. He placed the first plate in front of Victoria, and the second in front of Heath. The plate contained a green salad, a small bowl of a clear wine-red dressing, and what appeared to be a small pie, the size of a Cornish pasty, wrapped in puff pastry.

Silas served Audra and Jarrod, then turned to Victoria. "Will there be anything else needed, Mrs. Barkley?"

She looked around. Everything they needed was there on the table. "That'll be all for now, Silas," she told him.

He turned to go, but paused at the door to say, "Welcome home, Mr. Heath."

"It's good to be home," Heath said.

The others had begun eating, so Heath picked up his knife and fork and cut into the 'pie.' The filling had the look of mincemeat, but a more familiar, more wonderful smell. Living in hopes, he lifted a bite to his mouth. Succulent duck meat, mingled with nuts, raisins, apricots, and prunes, moistened with port wine. He drizzled some of the red sauce on the next bite, and closed his eyes to savor its deliciousness.

Silas was a genius.

No need to worry if _he _was angry.

Heath opened his eyes to find Jarrod staring at him grimly. Big brother wasn't happy. "You seem to have a good appetite," he said. Somehow he made it sound like a charge being read out in court.

"It's real tasty," Heath offered apologetically.

Victoria swallowed a mouthful of her own portion. "Just what is wrong with enjoying a well cooked meal?" she asked her oldest son.

Jarrod raised his eyebrows. "Nothing, of course, Mother. Silas has outdone himself with the strudel tonight." To prove it, he stabbed a forkful from his own plate as though he were trying to murder it, then lifted it to his mouth.

Audra, watching, nibbled the greens on which she'd dribbled a bit of the port wine sauce. _How are we going to bring him around?_

Jarrod had swallowed. "I merely observe that Heath doesn't generally have much appetite when he's done something wrong."

Heath, attempting to subdue the salad greens as elegantly as Audra had, _how does she do that?, _nearly dropped his fork.

"Perhaps he's done nothing wrong," Mother opined.

She and her oldest son stared at each other for a moment, then Jarrod set his napkin on the table. "If I may be excused, I have some papers I need to read."

"Of course," Mother agreed graciously. "I'm sure no one here would wish to keep you from your work."

"Yes," he said, "there's a brazen liar I need to be prepared to trip up." And if anyone present thought the term applied to himself, that was just fine with Jarrod.

For a few moments after he'd gone, the only sounds where those of people eating.

Finally, Heath began, "Mother, I'd like to—"

"Please don't apologize again," she interrupted. "There's no need. Did you really think I thought he'd gone to the yearling sale in Vallejo?" She shook her head, remembering. "Nick's door was open when I left, Heath. Silas met me in the hall. We both heard Nick say he'd thought of killing you, and that _the last few weeks_ _of his life_ should count for something." She smiled. "So tell me, my son, what it is _you_ did wrong."

Audra was staring at her. "You knew? Why didn't you tell me?"

Victoria shrugged elegantly. "What did I know to tell?"

"If you knew Nick was dying—"

Mother frowned, not angry, but puzzled at how to explain herself. "If Nick had wanted us to know, _he _would have told us. As the one dying, that was his choice to make."

Audra, having already accepted that Heath knew when she didn't, raised her eyebrows in what amounted to a facial shrug. "I guess everyone knew but me and Jarrod."

"Yes," Mother agreed, thoughtfully.

Heath cut another piece of the duck strudel, put the delightful concoction into his eager mouth, and chewed. "So what do we do?" he asked.

Victoria cut another piece of her own little pie. "For now, we eat our food."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Some people _want_ to die when no one else is there. –_Lizzy Miles_, Time of Death: Some Patients Prefer to Die Alone

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

The door of the study opened, and Audra wandered in. Jarrod, seated at the desk, didn't look up from his papers. She touched the back of a chair, then moved to another seemingly aimlessly before finally approaching the desk. "Jarrod?"

He didn't look up. "What is it, honey?"

"Why don't you talk to Heath?"

The steel nib scratched something on one of the papers. It had all his attention. "I tried talking to Heath, several times, but all he would say was there was nothing he could tell me."

She waited, but he had no more to say. He fanned the sheet he'd written on, then picked up another.

"But that was _before," _she pointed out.

"Before what?" he asked, though his sister would have bet money he wasn't listening and didn't care what she said.

"Before Nick gave him permission to talk."

Her big brother gave no reply. He was reading the paper he'd picked up. Suddenly, she was angry herself. "You're not even listening to me!"

Jarrod glanced up at her, but only briefly. "This is important," he explained with a flourish of his document.

"_This_ is important!" she exclaimed. "You told Heath you were angry because he'd hurt mother and me, but you don't care whether I'm hurt or not!"

"Don't defend him to me." His tone was dismissive; his eyes on his papers.

Audra stared down at the bend black head. There _had _to be a way to reach him. Her blond brows rose. "Korby Kyles," she announced, in the tones of someone making a daring bid playing bridge.

Jarrod froze. "What about him?"

"His family beat up Heath, and threatened to burn this house down, and to kidnap me and send me to China…. yet you still chose to defend him."

Jarrod didn't say anything, so she continued. "After the trial, you didn't come home until ten o'clock at night because you were so afraid we'd be angry with you. Do you know why we weren't?"

Jarrod, still looking down at his papers, shook his head. "I was sure you would be," he admitted softly.

"Heath told us we shouldn't be angry with you, because you were only doing what you thought was right.

"Well, Heath was only doing what he thought was right."

No response.

"Mother says she found out by eavesdropping that Nick was dying before he left, and she didn't tell us either. Are you going to give her the silent treatment, too?"

"It doesn't matter what Mother knew, and I'm not giving Heath the silent treatment, but I _am _quite busy, so if you'll excuse me?"

The swish of her skirts and the click of the door were what told him she'd left. He'd never looked up from his papers.

* * *

Hours later, when the double doors of the study clicked open, Jarrod thought it might be Audra returning for another round.

But it was Mother.

"Have you come to defend Heath, too?"

"You're angrier at Heath than you are at Nick. Why is that?"

He shrugged. "Heath is here; Nick isn't."

"Do you plan to greet Nick the way you greeted Heath? With anger and a blow?"

"We're his family, he should have told us."

"I could have told you. Do you want to strike me?"

Jarrod smiled at her. "You know I couldn't. Why didn't you tell me about Nick?"

"I was afraid you'd run after him."

"Someone should have. No one should die alone."

"Even if that's what they want?"

"No one wants that," he scoffed.

"Don't close the door with your need to be right, son. You don't know what everyone does or doesn't want, and it isn't your place to decide. Not even for your brothers."

"Now, Mother—"

"And that's the real reason you're angry, isn't it? Your brothers weren't doing what _you say._ 'Pappy' said to come home, and Nick didn't listen. Are you afraid that happened because he likes Heath better than you? That's the truth, isn't it? You're jealous because _Heath_ got to share Nick's big secret instead of you."

"Of course, I'm not—"

"Well, if that's the way you feel, Jarrod, you'd better give up the law and become a rancher, because he didn't _tell_ Heath his secret. Heath _was there _when the wolf attacked!"

Jarrod chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"You. Me." He shook his head. "Okay, I give in. I deeply regret my transgressions, and my assumption of overweening familial authority. Heath is a saint, and Nick has the right to die any way he chooses."

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," his mother said. "Now we can go to bed."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ** _This thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found." –_ Luke 15:32b, Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of this, and I am only writing it because Vol Lady wished it.

* * *

The train whistle blew a piercing final note. **"_All aboard!" _**

Eugene, waiting impatiently outside the door of the private car, was relieved to see Charles pop his head out of the car ahead. "He's here, Mr. Eugene," the porter said.

"Great!" Gene looked down at his confederate on the platform. "You have the telegram to send, Billie?" The boy nodded. "Okay, go send it." He watched the little street Arab run off, then turned back to the colored porter. "Charles, can you ask him if he'd like to join me?"

The porter winked, nodded, and disappeared back into the public car.

* * *

The pounding of hooves heralded the messenger's arrival. Jarrod met the boy at the door. He tore the missive open while the child waited.

Mother flew in from the kitchen, quickly followed by Heath, who'd been outside. "Is that it?" they asked, roughly in unison, then smiled at each other.

Jarrod perused the telegram. "Yes, they're on their way." He turned to the messenger. "Did you let them know at the hotel?"

"Yes, sir. Everything will be ready by the time the train gets in."

Jarrod flipped a quarter eagle to the boy, who stared at it a moment in surprise. "Thanks, Mr. Barkley. Your brother should take trips back east more often!"

Jarrod winked. "Off with you now, child."

"I'll hitch up the team," Heath said, following the boy out back out.

"Audra and Silas and I will be ready in a minute," Victoria assured her oldest son.

* * *

Nick had been both surprised and happy to discover that the 'high falutin' bigwig' had been Eugene and the private car his family's own. Charles had provided them with two servings of Chicken Creole which, if not up to Silas' standards, were certainly far and away tastier than anything Nick had encountered in Willow Springs, Massachusetts, or anywhere in between.

Eugene had asked nothing of him, and Nick had been content to listen to his younger brother's yammering about girls, and Berkeley, and his studies, until both of them had become drowsy. No wonder Jarrod liked the private car. It was a luxury Nick felt he had not sufficiently appreciated before.

Nick's gaze rested on his brother's sleeping face. There were a lot of things he hadn't appreciated before. He had thought he would never see Eugene again. Or Jarrod, or Heath, Mother, Audra, or Silas.

Yet here his little brother was. And he would see the others soon.

Because he was NOT DEAD!

Julia and Jeannie of the yellow hair were not so lucky.

But at least, he knew, now… something. Knew what had happened to Jeannie Price. Had known Julia, who had wanted to marry him for his name.

And Tommy. He smiled. As it turned out, Tommy's grandparents ran a few dozen head of cattle on their farm. They had a 'cuttin' horse' for him to ride, and had been pleased to know he was already on his way to being a useful helper to his granddad, so that was done, and done well. Tommy was home.

And now it was time for Nick to go home. He pulled out his watch. He should follow little brother's example and get some shuteye. He lowered the rest of the shades in the car, and settled down for a comfortable snooze. Thank God for private train cars!

* * *

At the depot in Stockton, Nick and Eugene exited their private car and emerged into the late afternoon sunlight. A crowd of townspeople had gathered under a banner reading, "WELCOME HOME, NICK!" The family was prominent among them.

Nick stared. "What's all this?"

The crowd broke into song, and Nick could pick out the family's voices among them, Audra's high and sweet, Heath more enthusiastic than tuneful, and Jarrod with a wry smile: _"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fel-el-low, which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fel-el-low, which nobody can deny!"_

Next to him, Gene said, "I guess they missed you."

* * *

A feast was laid on at the Stockton House, with everyone in town seemingly invited. Nick paused a moment to consider the festive board. The centerpiece was a whole spit-roasted calf. Nick grinned. "Whose idea was this?" he asked.

"Jarrod's," Heath told him.

"Pappy," Nick said in awe, "you had them kill the fatted calf for me."

* * *

A good time was had by all, with food, and music, and dancing. The townspeople did not know why Nick had been away so long, but it hardly mattered. A party was a party.

The Barkleys had reserved a suite with several bedrooms so they would not have to make the journey home until the next day, which was just as well, since the party didn't wind down until nearly dawn.

* * *

"Not angry, Pappy?" Nick asked when they were at last alone in the quiet sitting room of the family's suite. The others had all collapsed in their beds; the first rays of light were peeking in at the windows. "I wouldn't blame you. Heath told me you wanted me home. And it was kind of a shabby trick I played on you all, but… I couldn't face it at home. I could hardly face it all."

"No, Brother Nick, I'm all done with my anger. You sent your myrmidon before you to draw my poison, and I've none left to throw at you."

Nick's face took on the look of mystified, slightly angry curiosity so characteristic of his response to words he didn't know. "I sent my _what_?"

"Brother Heath."

"Hmm. And what did Heath do that satisfied you so successfully?"

"He did the best thing any of us _can_ do, Brother Nick. He did what he thought was right."


	7. Chapter 7

**Dedication: **For Tauna Petit-Strawn

**Author's Note: **_I owe nothing to my brothers, nor do I gather debts from them._ – Ayn Rand, Anthem

**Disclaimer: **I don't own this, and this part I'm writing because Tauna wished it.

* * *

Epilogue

It was far too early, but Jarrod could smell breakfast.

The light coming in between the window frame and the shade was strong: full daylight. He fumbled for his watch. Two hours of sleep was not enough, but the smell of coffee from the sitting room called to him, and he rose and ventured into the sitting room of the hotel suite.

Heath sat alone at the table, a coffee pot at his elbow and a huge platter of food before him.

Jarrod looked at him, puzzled. "Did you order that?"

Heath laughed. "No, Silas brought it up. He said he thought I'd be hungry by now."

Jarrod's brow furrowed. It was well before the time they normally ate at home.

"Yeah," Heath replied to his brother's unspoken thought, "Well, I usually get up and have a bite with Silas about five a.m., then I come back and eat again with the family at eight."

"It looks good," Jarrod said.

"You want some?" his half-brother offered. "There's plenty here for two." He rose and walked over to the credenza where he'd left his saddlebags, and pulled out a speckled enamel tin coffee cup. He filled it from the coffee pot and offered it to his brother, then looked around and brought one of the water glasses to the table before sitting back down. He poured half the orange juice into the waterglass and pushed it across the table. He offered Jarrod the fork and picked up the spoon to use himself.

"Do you always carry an extra cup with you?" Jarrod asked bemused. He smiled at the younger man, seated himself at the table, and began cutting the steak into bite-sized pieces.

"Yeah, pretty much." Heath gave a chuff of a laugh. "Never know when it might come in handy." He winked at his big brother, then took a spoonful of grits, followed by a spoonful of eggs.

Jarrod finished cutting the steak, put down the knife, picked up the tin cup again and sipped at the strong, dark brew. "I can hardly dispute you."

Heath took a sip of orange juice from the half-full stemmed glass next to him and spooned up a bite of steak. "Bit early for you, isn't it? Couldn't you sleep?"

Jarrod speared a bit of the meat himself. "I did for a little while."

"But not now?" The food was terrific. Heath ate another spoonful of the buttery grits. Silas knew just how he liked things. "I hope you don't offend my asking," he continued, after he'd swallowed.

"Not at all," Jarrod said. He sighed. "I think I forgot something in all this hoopla over Nick's homecoming."

Heath shook a few drops of the mushroom catsup onto to the bit of scrambled eggs nearest him, then spooned it up and into himself. _What is this stuff made of? _"What's that? We did everything we talked about when we were planning it at home."

"You."

Heath paused, his piece of toast suspended in the air. He met his brother's eyes. "You didn't forget me, Jarrod, I'm sitting right here."

Jarrod licked his lips and swallowed, though he hadn't had any food in his mouth just then. "Heath, I shouldn't have slapped you. I had no right to do that, and I deeply regret it."

Heath's eyes lowered as he set down the toast, then rose again to consider the blue eyes, which had been so angry that day, but this morning were again the calm and wise eyes of his big brother.

"Thank you, Jarrod. I appreciate you saying that." He paused a moment to think of what else he should say. "Apology accepted." He picked his toast up again and ate it.

Breakfast continued without much conversation, a little awkwardly as they were sharing plate and utensils and neither wanted to be thought to be snatching the food from his brother's mouth.

"Do you want that last bite of steak?" Jarrod asked.

"Not if you want it," Heath replied obligingly.

Jarrod chuckled. "Back to that, are we?" He picked up the knife again, cut the bit of meat in two, and pushed one of the halves Heath's way. His brother spooned it up happily.

"Jarrod, you don't think—" Heath stopped himself and shook his head.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." His half-brother poured himself more coffee as a cover for his feelings. "It's stupid. More coffee?"

"Okay," Jarrod said. When the tin cup was full again, he asked gently, "Please tell me, Heath."

Heath glanced at him, then looked away, across the room. He couldn't look in those blue, blue eyes and say this. "You told me a gentleman apologizes when he wants to repair a relationship that's been damaged."

"That's right," the older brother confirmed.

Heath changed his mind and turned back to the impossibly blue eyes of his big brother. "Do you think our relationship has been damaged then?"

Jarrod stared. "Brother Heath, we've just eaten breakfast together off the same plate. A relationship can't get any stronger than that!"

Heath picked up his cup and smiled down into his coffee. "Good. You know, Jarrod, this being a brother thing isn't as easy as falling off a log."

"No," his brother agreed. "But it's worth it."

"Yes, it is. To brothers," Heath proposed, holding out his mug.

Jarrod brought his tin cup up to clink gently against the mug. "To brothers."


End file.
